


Laughing

by Giglet



Series: Laughing [1]
Category: Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-06-06
Updated: 2002-06-13
Packaged: 2017-10-18 03:16:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/184397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Giglet/pseuds/Giglet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meandering series of snapshots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Laughing

**Author's Note:**

> To Billy, sex and death are pretty funny.
> 
> Without Kaneko, this would still be a lonely story on my hard-drive, languishing with the rest of the stuff that should never see the light of day.

Billy, when he's not freaking out, spends much of his time in bed laughing.

Or no, that's not really right. In bed, he spends most of his time sleeping, or rather wishing he was sleeping. And alone. Yes. Usually. Which may be pitiful compared to the personal lives of the rest of the cast, but that's how he is and he's come to accept that he'll be sleeping -- or not sleeping -- alone for much of his life. He deals with it with a stack of engaging history books on one side of the bed and a stack of skinrags and handkerchiefs on the other.

But when someone else is there, when "in bed" is just a euphemism for sex, he's usually laughing. Because as much as he adores a good romantic evening, there's something just ridiculous about it culminating in sex. Sex is inherently ridiculous. How can anyone possibly stay serious about being turned on by mushing one face up against another, about walking around with a red swollen erection bouncing against his belly, about the look on a woman's face when she comes, or the sounds he makes when he comes? Once, at a girlfriend's house, he called his home phone from his cell and let the answering machine record until the tape ran out. When he listened to it later, it cracked him up. When he came, he sounded like a particularly ill buffalo. What he imagined an ill buffalo would sound like.

He kept the tape. After Ellen left him, he cried the first time he heard it, but even through the tears he laughed.

He didn't bring the tape with him to New Zealand. He'd thought about it, but imagined trying to explain it to the customs agents, and well. . . he'd left it in storage at his Gran's house with the rest of his worldly goods, and hoped to god she didn't go through those boxes and see the label: "Sex with El".

Occasionally -- usually when he thought that the next killer wave, or next undertrained orc, or god forbid, the next fucking huge hungry shark was going to do him in -- he'd flash to a scene of his family sorting through his things after his funeral and finding that tape along with the rest of his embarrassing secrets. The thought of what the tabloids would make of it ("Pervy Pippin" the headline would read, "Dead Hobbit-man's stash of kinky home-made porn") would lend him that extra bit of adrenaline he needed to survive. And once the immediate danger passed, he'd go aside and laugh and shake for a bit until he had himself under control again.

Peter and some of the ADs thought he had a deathwish after he did that on set a couple times. Scared the hell out of them at first, and then they'd thought it was just hysterics, which Billy thought it wasn't, quite, but he didn't quite know how to explain it. Dom came over once when he was shaking to give him a comforting hug, but the thought of the tabloid headlines ("Pervy Pippin and Mate Merry: Gay Hobbits Frolic Down Under") had him howling with laughter, tears streaming down his face, laughing so hard it'd hurt. And that little episode had cost them nearly an hour's worth of filming time, once he'd calmed down and the makeup people had fixed his face and the eartip that'd fallen off. So now they just let him get through the hysterics on his own, and figured it was one of those things, like Viggo occasionally spouting poetry in some incomprehensible language, or Orli's fashion-crime shirts.

When faced with death, he usually freaked out and laughed. And when faced with sex he usually laughed. Which occasionally caused some misunderstandings with his partners, but except for once, it'd never scuttled the event completely.

Except that very occasionally, he was too busy freaking out during sex to notice that they were being ridiculous. Like last night.  



	2. Grasshopper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thinking about vices, about surrogate families, about living in Eden rather than living on porridge. And paddling like crazy.

Billy lets go of his paddle and sprawls in the bottom of the canoe, grinning mindlessly at the blue, blue sky. It's been weeks of agony in bootcamp for this movie, but he hasn't been able to stop grinning yet. It's the intensity of the thing that he loves, so very different from the plodding misery of his life before he chucked a steady paycheck for a life as an actor. He tried to be a good ant, but he found he was constitutionally unsuited to life except as a grasshopper. So he enjoys the push -- not quite the pain, he's no masochist, despite the shit that Dom gives him -- and delights in each day's pleasures with almost erotic satisfaction.

His hedonism surprises some of the crew. They were expecting a Hobbit, yes, but they were also expecting him to be a dour Scot. He can do black biting humour, but he just can't maintain dour for long.

Their trainer yells, and Billy groans as he sits back up and begins paddling hard to catch up with the others. Lij is out front, as usual, followed closely by Dom. Their trainer, the bastard, has an outboard motor. The scenery is amazing. Nothing like this back home. His national heritage, he supposes, is his accent and the sure knowledge that he can survive for months on porridge, beer, and only occasional glimpses of sunlight. November back home is nothing, nothing, nothing like this Eden. His grin is fading -- he needs his mouth open to gasp for breath. Instead of pushing his burning arms to one more stroke between the fantastic blue sky and the echoing blue of the water, he could have been sensible and stayed at the bindery, working the machines from before sunup till quitting time, heading home in the cold dark after sundown. He'd laugh for joy if he had breath to spare. He's a lucky bastard.

Pippin is a grasshopper too, he thinks. Tough and brave enough for months of porridge and occasional agony. A Scottish grasshopper, even if the Shire is more like Kent than Glasgow. Pippin may not realize it yet, though. Pippin's so young, even younger than Elijah.

Elijah amuses him, holding on so tight to his symbols of adulthood -- cigarettes and swearing -- just to keep from getting his hair ruffled like a child.

That's not quite right, Billy thinks. Elijah amazes him, really. It's Elijah's armor that amuses him, armor that he needs right now, for his first year away from home, away from family. Billy hopes that he'll relax in a few weeks, once he discovers the support system that Peter and Fran put in place. Billy's spotted it, and he's pretty sure Dom and Sean have as well, although it's subtle enough that Elijah maybe hasn't. He hopes that Elijah will relax -- the armor looks exhausting. Between it and the shooting schedule the boy will have a nervous breakdown before New Year's, which is just too soon. They'll need that breakdown later, in Mordor.

Peter and Fran don't have a shrink on board, as far as Billy knows, but they've thrown the Hobbits in the deep end together. Trial by fire, bonding, they've barely spent any time with the other actors. The Hobbits will take care of each other later. Including, especially, Elijah.

Elijah's assistant looks like a late-twenty-something babe, but acts like a mother-hen, and Billy's noticed how often Peter has a word with her. Maybe she's a very well-organized shrink in disguise.

Orlando's been keeping an eye on Elijah, but that could just be lust. Orlando's barely more than a boy either. Dominic seems older than Orlando, even though he's not. And Sean Astin immediately settled into an older-brother role, which Elijah seemed to welcome, so that's settled. Billy's not sure where he'll fit in yet, but he's not fussed about it.

Sean Bean's another one of the grownups. He's made an effort to treat Elijah like an adult, playing the we're-both-movie-veterans card. Steward hasn't made an effort yet, but then they've barely seen Stewart -- he's had his head down with other problems.

Ah, and there's the endorphin rush that he'd been hoping for. Better than single-malt, better than adrenaline, better than anything except very funny, very hot sex. He pushes harder, passing Sean's canoe and gaining on Dom. Good guys, all of them. These are his mates for the next year of insane effort. Life is so fucking good.


	3. Coffee/Shower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4 am domestic scene. "Not a morning Hobbit" doesn't even begin to cover it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A two-parter, from Elijah's and Billy's points of view, respectively.

**Coffee(shower)**

He could hear them, because god knows his hosts weren't making any attempt to be quiet, even though it was dark and cold and he really really wanted to go back to sleep to the hum of the microwave. It was typical morning muttering, everyone half asleep. Knowing Dom and Billy, they'd be making tea rather than coffee. Elijah snuggled deeper into the couch, under the blanket someone had thrown over him an hour or two ago.

"Earl Grey?"

"What the fuck ever, so long as it's hot and sweet."

"Wake Lij up, would you Sean?"

"Why me?"

"You outweigh him."

Sean made a noise -- not quite a snort, and not quite a cough -- before saying, "Tinkerbell outweighs him."

And Billy, his accent broader than usual in the pre-dawn kitchen, was saying, "Oi, don't talk about Ian like that."

"Fuck you."

"No thanks, I don't mess with married men. Look, I'll make you coffee, even, just get Lij into the shower."

And that must have tipped the balance, because there were Sean footsteps, and the couch moved as Sean sat on the far end, below where Elijah had curled his feet up under the cushions.

"Come on, party boy. Time to rise and shine."

Elijah roused enough to say, "Fuck off. Sleep."

Sean was implacable, pulling away the blanket. "The driver shows up in 10 minutes, and you need a shower. Up."

"Sleep."

"No sleep. You can sleep during Feet, but you gotta get up now." Sean grabbed an arm and pulled until Elijah was half sitting, despite himself.

Elijah thought, "sucks to be little" and was surprised when Sean laughed.

"Sucks to be fat, too. Are you going to walk or should I haul you to the bathroom over my shoulder?"

Elijah's stomach roiled, "God, no. How much did I drink?"

"Not much, but you skipped dinner." Sean lapsed into Sam's accent, "And supper and tea and midnight snack. Very unHobbitish of you, Mr. Frodo."

Elijah opened his eyes in time to watch Sean's face and posture change from Sam back to Sean. It was neat, no matter how many times he'd seen it before. Almost worth being awake for. "Coffee."

"No time. Shower. I don't want to smell that chick's perfume all day."

"Who? Oh yeah, she overdid it. Still on me?"

Billy volunteered, "You reek like a midden, Mr. Wood," from the doorway. He was holding a travelmug.

He was awake now, but desperately wanted coffee. "Coffee."

"This is Mr. Astin's reward for braving the stinking den of the child star."

Elijah could tell that Billy was putting on his "I'm awake and have a big vocabulary" attitude. To which there was one appropriate response. "Fuck you."

"No, Sean would kill me if I tried anything."

"Oh, let him have the coffee." Sean stood up. "Five minutes until the driver gets here."

Elijah got his feet under him, grabbed the mug from Billy, and staggered into the bathroom. It was warm and steamy from the other three Hobbits, who'd already showered off last night's nightclub visit. Thank god for tankless water heaters. He remembered back home, how sometimes the hot water would run out in the middle of his shower if Hannah's got to the bathroom first. The pang of homesickness was almost comforting, he was so used to it.

* * *

  
 **Shower(coffee)**

Billy looked up as Elijah came into the kitchen, wrapped in Dom's none-too-clean robe and looking too damn chipper for oh-dark-thirty. Or maybe it was just his hair that was chipper. Elijah held his mug out to Billy, "Another?"

Billy pointed at the instant coffee on the counter and stood up. "I'll get you some clothes."

When Billy returned, before the microwave had finished heating the water, he handed over his "St. Andrews" sweatshirt, sweatpants, socks and underwear. Elijah shucked the robe and began to dress in the middle of the room.

Dom shut the drapes, but didn't say anything.

Elijah was apparently continuing a conversation, "Yeah, I never knew you could drink coffee in the shower, but the lid of the mug keeps the lather out." He looked remarkably pleased by this. "It's great. It's hedonistic, doing both at once."

Billy laughed, "If that's your idea of hedonism, you've a wee bit left to learn."

Elijah pulled on the sweatshirt, popping his head out of the collar and looking like a cocky six year old. "Oh yeah? You going to teach me?"

"I might."

Elijah was concentrating on pulling on his socks, and didn't see the glances over his head. "I thought you said Sean would kill you if you tried anything?"

"Not everything is about sex. Just. . . pleasure. Next Sunday. I'll make you feel good, and I'll leave your cherry intact."

"Hey!" But before Elijah could defend his manhood, the car had pulled up and they were grabbing their bags and trooping out the door for another day in Middle Earth.  



	4. Hedonism 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Billy's famous last words: "This isn't about sex."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was not the pairing I intended to write, but California-boy insisted. Neither Billy nor I are quite sure what to make of this.

Elijah slept like a log. Not that Billy didn't enjoy a decent sleep-in on the their days off, but it was practically afternoon and the boy hadn't stirred yet. He went back to his book, sitting on Elijah's couch, waiting. He was warm and dry and in no hurry, and that was pleasure enough for now.

Once he'd said he'd teach Elijah about hedonism, there was no turning back. Sean and Dom weren't about to let that drop -- or be quiet about it on set -- so now the entire crew knew. It was novel, something a little different from the usual set romances, and had provided amusement for the rest of the week. Billy thought he'd heard about a betting pool, but had taken pains to avoid learning exactly what the betting was about. No matter what happened, half of his coworkers now believed he was a kinky cocksucker with a hard-on for Elijah. He supposed there were worse reputations to have.

'Lijah's assistant had come and gone, bringing clothes from the cleaners, the food that Billy'd asked her to get, and -- bless her -- fresh-made coffee. And she'd been worried, so he'd gone over it with her, the way he'd gone over the plan for the day with Sean, and with Peter: no, he wasn't seducing Elijah (which wouldn't be so bad in itself, but more importantly) yes, he would do his damnedest not to mess with Elijah's head. Such a fuss over the golden boy, when really, Elijah was remarkably together, remarkably stable, for his age.

Although yes, Elijah could also muck up his life royally, like any other 19-year-old, and they'd all be screwed if he did.

It was a damn lucky for them that Billy was so accommodating. Then again, he didn't need them storming the house, thinking he was foully raping the sweet (ha!) virginal (ha!) child (bloody fucking ha!) star.

He could just see it -- Bean in the front yard, in full Boromir rig, blowing his horn to cue the charge. Hundreds of stunt men would be involved, of course, screaming and running at the house, and he could just imagine the women -- Fran with Liv and Miranda -- mounted, setting their horses to jump the front hedge. Peter would sit up the street with a cell phone stuck to his ear, calmly calling in an airstrike by the Kiwi airforce (Billy suspected that Peter secretly ran the entire country -- certainly everyone seemed to work for him, up to and including the military), while Ian would stand beside him, well away from the action, declaiming dramatically and making lewd, witty comments about everyone.

Sean and Viggo, of course, would already have snuck in through the bedroom window. Sean would carry Elijah out with him, artistically bundled in the comforter, while Viggo would act as the rear guard, waving his sword about menacingly. And meanwhile Billy in the parlour. . . would be doing his gobsmacked Pippin imitation and hiding under something.

He snickered into his book.

He'd ended up promising Peter that he, Billy, would be fully dressed at all times.

A noise? Yes! A noise from the bedroom. Followed, a few minutes later, by Elijah, naked, stumbling to the bathroom.

Billy picked an article of clothing out from the cleaner's bag and brought it to the bathroom door. "Lij, I've something for you."

Elijah grunted.

"I'll leave it on the door." Billy hung the pants on the doorknob and headed for the kitchen.

"These are boxer shorts," Elijah called.

"Sharp as a tack, aren't you?" Billy called back.

"Hey. These are my boxer shorts!"

"Aye. Freshly washed, dried, and folded. Fresh scent, no starch. Put them on. Enjoy it."

Elijah appeared in the doorway, wearing his pants. "This is. . . kinky."

"If that's your idea of kinky," Billy said, paraphrasing himself, " then you've a wee bit left to learn. But hell if I'll be the one to teach you. Back to bed with you, I'll be there in a minute."

"First you turn me down, then you tell me you'll join me in bed?" He shook his head in mock sadness, "You're sending some seriously mixed messages there, man."

Not nearly as mixed as he could be sending, Billy thought, but he didn't say it. He did say, "brat!" but it wasn't very satisfying. "Back to bed. It's your day off."

And Elijah went. At least he takes direction well, Billy thought, dropping the herbal tea bag into a mug. He put the chicken pot pie into the oven, pulled the fruit from the fridge, and took the mug into the bedroom.

Elijah was sitting up in bed, looking faintly worried. Looking, honestly, rather like a sweet virginal child star. From a porn video.

"This isn't about sex," Billy said from the doorway, speaking both to himself and Elijah. "And I'm not going to climb into bed, so just relax."

"What if I wanted you to?"

Brat. Of course he'd say that, whether he meant it or not, because he was 19 and horny as the day was long, and a good enough actor to make it sound convincing.

"Then it sucks to be you. I can't think of anything that would change my mind. Sorry."

"What if Peter told you to?"

Billy laughed and walked into the room, putting the mug on the bedside table. "Yeah, point. But Peter told me not to, so there."

"Peter gave you instructions for this?" Elijah looked -- yes, he managed to look scandalized.

Billy laughed again, and didn't answer. Instead he pulled up a chair. "Okay. Hedonism is about letting yourself feel good. But you have to pay attention to how things feel to do that."

"I do that."

"Not enough, if drinking instant coffee in the shower is a thrill. So. Did yesterday suck?"

"Well yeah."

"Because. . ."

"Are you kidding?"

"Humor me."

"It was freezing, my cunt of an ear kept coming off, and the takes took forever."

"Are you cold now?"

"No."

"Too hot?"

"No."

"Just right?"

"Yeah, does this mean I'm sleeping in the Baby Bear's bed?"

"No, Goldilocks, it means that when something feels just right, give it some attention, let yourself enjoy it. You're warm."

"But it's just. . . there."

Billy sighed. "You remember when the caterers put out the lousy coffee?"

"God, yeah."

"Do you remember when the coffee was really good?"

Elijah shrugged.

"Have you ever had really good coffee?"

"Coffee's just coffee. Sometimes I like it more than other times."

"Normal people say that about movies, too. They don't know enough to pay attention to when it's really good. You know about acting, but you don't know about comfort. That's not entirely your fault, because a thick skin is useful for ignoring the mediocre crap, but try to pay attention when something's really good."

"Like coffee."

"Coffee, and smokes, and clean clothes."

"Okay, got it. You're raising my consciousness," Elijah said, smugly.

"You sound like you grew up in California. Just. . . pay attention."

Elijah looked skeptical.

Billy handed him the mug. "Here, take a sip of this, and tell me what it tastes like."

"What is it?"

"Tea."

He sniffed it, wrinkled his nose. He took a sip. "What is this shit?"

"What do you taste?"

"I dunno. Leaves. It's. . ." he made a face. "I mean, it's not exactly disgusting, but. . . I don't know how to describe it."

Billy waited, but Elijah seemed stuck. "You taste different things with different parts of your mouth. Sweet, sour, salty, bitter…"

"Bitter, yeah." He took another sip. "And. . . almost salty. God, this *is * disgusting."

"One more taste, swirl it around your mouth like a fancy wine expert."

"Do I get to spit it out like they do?"

"Not unless you want to clean it up."

Elijah took the sip, swished it around like mouthwash, and then spit it back into the mug. "No more, okay?"

"So what else did you taste?"

Elijah thought, sucking the taste from his tongue. "It was. . . a little bit sweet, too. Sweet and bitter?"

"Some people quite like it, but it's an acquired taste. I'll leave the box in your kitchen in case you want to try it again."

"No way."

"I bet you said that the first time you tasted beer, too."

"I didn't."

"Well, I did. I thought it was disgusting. Worth downing to get drunk, but still disgusting. So think about what you're tasting next time you eat something." With any luck, the next thing Elijah ate would be the potpie, which was a little bit of culinary heaven.

"Listen, are your feet hurting?"

"Not bad."

Billy raised his eyebrows.

"Okay, Sensei, yeah, they're a little sore and the glue is making me itch."

"Stick your feet out over the edge of the bed here. I'll be back in a minute." He went to the bathroom and started filling the plastic basin he'd brought with hot water. Basin, pitcher, soap, towels and flannel.

"You're going to wash my feet?" Elijah was openly incredulous.

"Indeed. From sensei to body-slave, what can I say? Move the pillows around, lean back and enjoy it. That's the point, right?"

"Man, nobody is going to believe that we're not fucking."

"Because I washed your feet, we must be lovers?"

"Hey, it's pretty intimate."

"Right. So Christ washing his disciples' feet. . . "

"Massive gay orgy. Definitely."

Billy smiled and pulled the chair closer, arranging the rest of the bath things on the end table before sitting and spreading the towel across his lap. After his grandfather's stroke, Billy had given him enough spongebaths to have a routine. It helped, to be thinking about Gramp rather than the way Elijah's mouth moved around the word, "orgy."

Elijah's toes peeked out from under the covers. "Unless you want a wet mattress, slide this way a bit. No, more. Christ, Lij," he grabbed and ankle and hauled until the edge of the mattress hit Elijah in mid-calf. "Better."

"I hate that." Elijah sounded like he was talking about the weather. "I hate being so light you can do that."

"I'll let you haul me around by my ankle sometime. Fair?"

Elijah grinned from his nest of pillows. "Fair. You're going to regret that."

"I already do." Billy regretted this entire day already. "Down to business." He wet the flannel and started on the top of Elijah's left foot. "Pay attention. I want running commentary."

By and large, Elijah managed, with "yeah, that's good," or "I feel like there's still a clump of glue there. Yeah, I know there isn't, but it *feels * like it." Eventually, though, he relaxed into to occasionally humming. Billy relaxed as well. He could do this. It really was a pleasure to have time, to be able to do a favor for a friend. He'd made his point, he'd leave Elijah with a bubble bath and good food in the kitchen, and the rest of the day to waste.

As he was drying Elijah's right foot, though, Elijah started to pull away.

"What?"

"I just, um." Elijah put his foot back, but his toes were curled up.

"Ticklish?"

"No, just," Elijah's cheeks were red. So was his chest. His nipples stuck out above the sheet. Billy carefully avoided looking at where the boxers tented. Nineteen years old and horny as the day is long. Right.

"Listen, I'm just about done. Then I'll head out, give you some time to deal with that."

"No, I mean. . . this felt so good. I don't want to -- I just… it'll suck, if I, you know, get myself off." He took a deep breath. "Stay. Would you stay?"

Billy could feel his own cheeks warming and he shook his head. (But he could hear the voice of his drama school teacher in the back of his head, "You can't trust us, we're not decent people.") He was still holding Elijah's warm, clean foot.

"Oh god." He'd never been too good at being decent. "Look, let me get rid of this. Get back under the covers."

"What?"

"Back in a minute."

He escaped to the bathroom, tried to talk himself out of this, and failed. He'd regret this, he knew he would. But honestly, how selfish a prick was he? He was going to do it anyway, because he wasn't enough of an asshole to wind Elijah up and leave him hanging. And because he'd enjoy the hell out of it.

On the other hand, he realized, standing next to the bed, staring at Elijah staring at him, he also seemed completely unable to take off his clothes. Any of them. Peter had made him promise, and Peter's presence in the room was palpable.

Elijah lifted the covers. "Come on in."

"Oh hell." He couldn't do this. Could he? "Look, turn on your side. No, the other way."

"Billy. . . are you always this bossy in bed?"

"I'm still trying to teach you something, okay?"

"Christ on a crutch, Billy, I just want to get off!"

And that, oddly enough, was exactly what Billy needed to regain some semblance of self-control. "Give a man a hand-job," he said snidely, "and he'll get off once. Teach a man to give himself a fantastic hand-job and he'll never get blue-balls again."

"You've got to be kidding."

"I promised, Elijah. I'm not going to lay a hand on you, but I can tell you what to do, and I can, um, critique."

"God that's kinky."

"Er. Yeah. So shove over, will you?" He climbed on top of the bed and spooned up behind Elijah, with the covers between them. His loafers resting on the bedspread bothered him until he breathed in the smell of Elijah's shampoo, the scent of the sweat on the nape of his neck. He wrapped his upper arm around Elijah's waist. Where he thought Elijah's waist was -- it was hard to tell, exactly, with the blankets, and now wasn't the time to grope around and make sure.

"So let me guess," Billy said, his breath stirring Elijah's hair, "you usually think of Pamela Anderson and pull your willy with all the finesse of a 13-year-old until you come, right?"

"Oh, fuck you."

"Not today dear, I've got a headache. It's the same thing, though, d'you see? You have to pay attention to what feels good, slow it down a bit."

"I don't want to slow down!"

"Trust me. You're a Hobbit, try to act like one. If it feels good, you should do more of it."

"It. . . doesn't. Feel good. Not really. Just. I just need to get off. I need…" Under the covers, Elijah's hand was moving. Pulling his willy, easy guess.

"If you do this right," he whispered into Elijah's ear, "you'll want as much as you need." He moved his hand, searching until he found Elijah's forearm, slid down to cup his fist.

Elijah gasped, and gasped again when Billy tightened his grip to stop the motion. They struggled over that, briefly, but Billy had better leverage. Given the -- what? Comforter, blanket, sheet, maybe Elijah's pants -- three or four layers between their hands, Billy wasn't sure he could actually stop Elijah from moving without squeezing so hard he might damage something tender. But it seemed that Elijah was willing to be persuaded, because he stopped.

"Forget about your cock for a minute, let's get the rest of you up to speed." Billy thought for a minute, "Have you gone down on a woman? Do you remember what she tastes like?"

Elijah's face tightened, eyes screwed shut as he groaned and arched his back. He was beautiful this way, Billy thought. Ridiculous, of course, but beautiful. Dangerous. Beautiful and perilous, and all who looked at him would love him and despair.

Billy pulled his mind back to the matter at hand. "She tastes a bit like that tea, aye? Salty and bitter and a bit sweet. And sucking on her clit, feeling her legs wrapped around your head, it's like nothing else in the world."

Elijah was panting now. He was easy to wind up, Billy should be able to do this without completely losing the distance he needed. Shouldn't he?

"Remember how your toes felt, when I was washing your feet? Warm, and wet, rubbing them rosy. Where's your other hand? Touch your nipples, they can feel just as good," he was hoarse himself, now. "So good, that's it" and it was an effort to keep himself from rocking into Elijah, from thrusting. This wasn't about him, it wasn't about sex for him, no matter how hot Elijah looked, no matter how flushed his cheeks were, nor how he whimpered, "oh god" over and over again, nor how his fine trembling was growing, growing…

"Now," Billy whispered, pushing and pulling, giving Elijah permission to finally rub his cock. Elijah, when he came, was silent, his face almost shocked. "Oh," he whispered.

Beautiful. Billy had to get out of there before he embarrassed himself, or broke a promise. "Good?"

Elijah nodded vaguely, his eyes nearly closed. "Oh," he breathed again. "Oh yeah."

He needed to leave, but he also needed to stay. Because how could he resist cuddling a warm armful of sated Elijah? Better than a teddy bear. Billy stroked Elijah's hair.

His thoughts drifted a bit then. Billy wondered idly if Elijah had had a special stuffed animal, if he'd decided to leave it behind when he came -- as an adult -- to New Zealand. Billy had a stuffed giraffe, named, appropriately, "Giraffy" that he'd left behind. He'd been thinking of calling Gran, asking her to mail it to him, along with some of his music. Except then she might find that tape of him and El… maybe he'd just ask for Giraffy. Every Hobbit ought to have his plush toy, he thought. And if he couldn't have this one on a regular basis. . .

Definitely time to leave, before he got any more bad ideas.

He propped his head up on a hand and looked down at Elijah. "Now. I'm going to run you a bath, and there's a good meal waiting for you in the kitchen. You're to enjoy yourself, right?"

"Right." Elijah smiled dreamily.

"Well done." He kissed Elijah's cheek. A friendly peck, that was all. "See you tomorrow."

After another moment, he managed to untangle his arms, roll away, and get out of bed. Billy's erection faded while he was filling the bathtub, which was one small mercy -- he hadn't looked forward to jerking off in Elijah's bathroom -- then he packed his things by the couch and let himself out, locking up behind him.

It was a beautiful New Zealand afternoon. He walked down the street, then down another at random, wandering vaguely downhill, but not really paying attention to where he was going. Not really thinking or feeling at all, just wafting along in a daze. He should really ask Gran for Giraffy.

Finally, when he thought he could act normal, even if he didn't feel like it, he found a corner, read the street signs, and used his cell phone to call the cab company. He leaned against the sign and watched the traffic go by as he waited for the taxi that would take him home.


	5. Grist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actors, dammit. A bit of Dom.

Dom wasn't home or wasn't answering the door, but the taxi hadn't taken off yet, so Billy climbed back in and gave his own address, back on the other side of Wellington. The bill and tip took the rest of his cash. He felt as deflated as his wallet when he let himself in to his apartment.

"Hey, did you know your milk's turned?"

Dominic was sitting in his kitchen, going through an impressively large pile of mail and a bag of crisps. He looked like he'd been there for hours. He probably had.

"Yes, I know the milk's turned, it's been in there for weeks." Billy put the kettle on for tea, and leaned against the counter, deliberately casual. "There's UHT milk over the stove. Why do I even bother locking up?"

"If you're serious about it, mate, you shouldn't leave the kitchen window open. You'll find your stereo gone, next."

"I'm amazed Mrs. Donleavy didn't call the police." There were advantages to having nosy -- and protective -- neighbors. And he liked Mrs. Donleavy, he did, from the moment he heard her name.

He'd had a crush on a girl called Patricia Donleavy, back in acting school. One of the drama coaches -- the closest thing Billy had to a mentor -- had cautioned him against losing his heart to her. (The older man had exhorted them all year to examine every experience and human contact for its use in their acting, using a catch phrase that they quickly grew sick of: "Grist for the mill," he'd say heartily, rolling that first r. "Every boring trip to the grocer, every smile from the cashier, every time you're waiting for the bus. It's all grist for the mill.") When Billy fell into his infatuation with bouncy, intense Pat, his teacher warned him against relationships with actors. "Artists aren't decent people, Bill," he'd said sadly, "Can't trust us. You think she's your soulmate, and then discover that you're just grist for her mill." And in the end, Pat had used him before bouncing away to gaze into another man's eyes, but he'd remained fond of her. She played fabulous romantic leads, and he was (he thought modestly) pretty good at understated heartache.

"I think she was at church when I got here," Dom was saying, bringing him back to the present and their discussion of the other Ms. Donleavy. The decent one.

"That long?"

"I didn't expect you to take all day."

"Elijah sleeps like a teenager."

"Elijah is a teenager."

"Oh god, you too? Everyone seems to think I'm out to pervert him." Billy rolled his eyes. "I slept on the couch last night. I've been fully clothed since I got up this morning." And that was as much as Dom needed to know, at least until Billy found his equilibrium again.

The kettle whistled its harsh tone, and Billy turned off the stove, moving without thought, out of habit. He poured himself a cuppa, and then one for Dom. When he handed it across, Dom stood, took it with one hand and grabbed Billy's newly empty hand with the other.

"It wasn't Elijah I was worried about."

The look was sincere, but he knew Dom, he _knew_ him, he'd been working with the likes of Dom for the past ten years. Actors, dammit. And he could act back, but this was his day off. He just looked back at Dom.

"Okay, so I was, a bit." Dom let go of his hand, and Billy sat on the tall kitchen stool. "How is he?"

"Relaxed, for once. Even his hair is down. I ran him a bath before I left. I imagine he's still in it, probably wanking off merrily."

Dom stepped across to stand close by Billy's stool. "Honestly though, how are you?"

There, Billy thought with some satisfaction. That's genuine Dom. He put his cup down and leaned over sideways, cheek hitting Dom right on the collarbone. "I'm grist." He closed his eyes and let Dom take his weight. "I'm just grist."

And Dom, for once, didn't ask and didn't act, just put an arm around him, and let him rest there for as long as he liked.


End file.
